The story of Samuel, who was known by reputation as the last great judge of Israel, started auspiciously at the moment of his birth. Samuel was one of those Bible miracle babies, conceived years after his mother assumed she would live a lifetime of infertility. I guess it’s fair to say, actually, that Samuel’s story began with the story of his mother, Hannah. Hannah who prayed and wept over and over again for a son, promised God that if she were to bear a son she would dedicate him to God’s service.

And when Samuel was finally born, Hannah kept her promise. She sent her son off to the city of Shiloh and entrusted his care to Eli, an aging priest. In turn, Eli kept up his part of the bargain by enlisting Samuel to help around the temple doing various odd jobs.

Back in those days, the city of Shiloh where Eli lived was infamous for its seedy underbelly. It was the kind of city where you would walk into the temple and squeeze your wallet tightly in your hands when you folded them together to pray. Ironically, part of Shiloh’s character as a city was earned on the exploits of Eli’s two sons, whom the Bible labels as “scoundrels.”

If someone walked into the temple with an offering of sacrificial meat, for example, Eli’s two sons would pull the meat right out of the ceremonial bowl and eat heartily. As a result, over time Eli’s two sons grew content living off the sacrifices of others, stealing from the temple, and justifying their behavior because their father was a priest. In today’s world, we would call Eli’s son’s children of privilege, in the worst sense of the word.

Things reached a low point when Eli’s sons grew tired of eating boiled meat in the temple and they started to strong arm people for their meat before it was cooked. That way the sons could have personal chefs roast the meat to their own satisfaction. When word of his son’s behavior filtered back to Eli, Eli was horrified and embarrassed. But instead of confronting his offspring, Eli decided to let their behavior slide in the hopes that it would improve over time.

For years, Eli’s way of coping with his sons was effectively to do nothing. And now by the time we meet Eli in today’s story, he’s described as an old man who lost most of his eyesight and who spent day and night confined largely to his bed. By this point he had minimal focus and minimal energy…not to mention little motivation and not much left to live for.

To be sure the Bible is filled with older people who had plenty of courage and charisma and drive. But not Eli. In his old age, Eli became complacent. He was tired and worn out and unwilling to stand up for what was right. As today’s Scripture lesson puts it, “The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.” Overall, these were bleak, dreary days in the Bible and Eli’s apathy was a prime example of a culture where many were passive and had simply thrown in the towel.

I love the beginning words in this morning’s third verse, however. Times were tough and the people were tame and subdued. Meanwhile it was nighttime and Eli and his two nasty older sons and the boy Samuel were all asleep in the sanctuary of the temple. The dawn was still a few hours away. Yet according to Scripture, “The lamp of God had not yet gone out.”

Talk about the kind of devotional phrase you and I could repeat to ourselves every day as a reminder. The lamp of God had not yet gone out. Yes, the city of Shiloh was awash in unsavory activity, but there was still a light on in that sanctuary. The people were full of wickedness and injustice, but there was a lamp still burning. God’s light meant there was still a flicker of hope. There was still a faint chance.

With God, there is always a “not yet.” Thankfully. What’s more, this story helps us remember that sometimes it’s precisely those moments when human beings stop talking that God opens God’s mouth to speak.

Why God chose to break the long, dreary, widespread silence by talking to a boy in pajamas is something you and I will never know. There is often no accounting for why God does what God does. And there’s certainly no obvious reason why God would call out to a child in this story. The only thing we know to be true is that when God calls, God expects human beings to answer.

“Samuel, Samuel.” Being fast asleep, Samuel had no idea who was calling him. On the other hand, Samuel was accustomed to being called, even at all hours of the night. Such is the life of an apprentice…when someone calls and wants something, you respond.

Logically, Samuel assumed it was Eli who wanted him. So twice he showed up at the foot of Eli’s bed, only to have a drowsy Eli send Samuel back to his own room. But the third time Samuel came into Eli’s room, it was different. Eli may have lost something on his fastball, but the third time around he knew enough to trust that God was the one speaking. And lo and behold, Eli woke up and mustered up just enough energy and wisdom to teach Samuel how to respond to God’s call.

The words Eli taught Samuel were in many ways the boldest thing a human being could ever say in response to God’s voice. “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.” And when Samuel said those very words back to God, God spelled out God’s agenda.

It turns out God had some harsh things to say to Samuel about Eli’s indifference and the wickedness of his family members. God told Samuel that things were about to change in the city of Shiloh. Actually, God was getting ready to change the mindset and the culture across all of Israel. And all that started in the middle of the night when Samuel paid attention.

Thousands of years later, we find ourselves in the same kind of place as Samuel long ago. Wondering what word God has for us? What is God calling you and me and Wapping Community Church to do going forward?

Looking into the future, there’s a lot we don’t know yet. We don’t know what this church or the Christian church universal will look like in the next ten years or twenty years. We don’t know down the road how people will choose to spend their time or their energy or their money and what kind of faith communities they might invest in. We’re not even sure where faith will fit as part our societal landscape.

But there is one thing we do know. Once upon a time God came to a small boy fast asleep in the middle of the night. And God spoke a word to that child, despite the fact that little boy appeared totally unlikely to make a difference in the world. Nevertheless, the moment the boy listened and then responded to God, God drew a new line in the sand. God marked the beginning of a dramatic about face. And together with God’s people, God began to shape a better, more just, less painful world…

I’ve heard a few of you say to me recently that there are people you miss seeing here in worship at Wapping Community Church. I’ve heard a number of you lament how much harder it is to find people to volunteer for various boards and church projects and programs than it used to be. I’ve heard some of you waxing nostalgic about the way the church used to be.

But instead of getting bogged down in our own idealized, human version of what this church is supposed to be and what we’re supposed to look like and how we’re supposed to feel together, now is the time for keeping it simple. There’s only one thing this church and all of us really need to do. We need to listen.

God needs us to listen. And you and I need to teach each other to answer, “Go ahead, God, and speak…we’re paying attention.” Even if it seems like God has other things to do than call out to all of us at Wapping Community Church. Even if some of us are feeling tired and worn out. Can we be like Samuel who responded in the middle of the night with eager clarity? “Speak, God, we are listening.”

No, we don’t know exactly what lays ahead for Wapping Community church. But rest assured there is something next. With God there always is. Until then God’s light here at Wapping Community Church is still burning. God’s lamp is shining here in this church building. God is not yet done with this church or the Christian church universal. Not by a longshot.

In the meantime, the good news is we don’t need to know every little thing about what is in store for us. We only need to know one big, important, necessary thing. It is the most dangerous, the most daring, the most life-changing thing any of us can say.

“Go on, God. Go ahead and tell us. We’re all ears. Talk to us and give us the word. We’re listening. We’re listening.

Yes, we are listening… Amen.

NOTE: Inspiration for this sermon came from a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Mary Luti. Dr. Luti’s sermon, entitled “Go On, God, Talk. We’re Listening,” was preached at Charles Street AME Church on January 18, 2015

This morning I’m going to read the Scripture lesson from the Torah, translated directly from the Hebrew language by a group of well-known Jewish scholars and rabbis. I invite you to listen, then, to the Abraham and Isaac story for a final time. By the same token, I invite you to listen with an open heart as if you are hearing the story for the first time.

Read Genesis 22:1-14…

As we come to the end of this five week sermon series study on the story of Abraham and Isaac, the overall response has been fascinating. A number of you have appreciated the opportunity to look at one Scripture lesson in depth, from different angles and multiple perspectives. This sermon series, along with our weekly sermon feedback time, have proven that the Bible is so multi-layered that we could come to new interpretations and reach new conclusions every time we open its pages…even when we are examining the same story for five weeks in a row.

On the other hand, for a few among us our sermon series ends mercifully today. Maybe it’s the graphic nature of this particular Bible story. Or maybe it’s the idea of spending five weeks in a row talking about any story from the Bible. In any case, if you put yourself in this category, rest assured you won’t hear the story of Abraham and Isaac in worship again for quite some time...

I said four weeks ago that the story of Abraham and Isaac ultimately raises more questions than provide answers. At the end of five weeks I’m even more convinced of that fact. Moreover, the more I study this story the more I find myself at odds with historical, theological, traditional analysis.

Abraham passed God’s test on top of Mount Moriah. Abraham was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to prove how much he honored God’s will. And scholars down through the ages have lauded him for his courage and his faithfulness in the face of a command from God that is both brutal and unthinkable. But when all is said and done, I don’t buy it. A God who puts people to the test by asking them to kill someone they love isn’t the kind of God I want to serve.

In the meantime, a father who willingly puts his own devotion and his own loyalty and his own allegiance to God above the well-being…indeed the very life…of his own beloved son. That’s not the kind of father I’d want to have either.

What Abraham did up on the top of Mount Moriah earned him God’s blessing. But that blessing came at a steep and frightening price. For in my mind that blessing cost Abraham his family. And in an equally disturbing manner it cost Abraham his own peace of mind…

Most of the time the Bible gives us hope and life. It offers to us glimpses of God’s love and God’s salvation offered to God’s people time and again down through history. Every once in a while, however, the Bible breaks our hearts. And I would contend that the story of Abraham and Isaac is one such example. A story filled with failure on so many levels.

What kind of failure? First, today’s narrative is a story about Abraham’s failure to love. I’m not saying Abraham didn’t care about his son. But part of the responsibility, the gift of love is to nurture the ones we care about. To support them and surround them and do the very best we can to keep them safe and protected. In an effort to showcase his obedience to God and defer to God’s will, I believe Abraham lost sight of what love requires.

We live in a 2015 world where we too lose sight of what love requires, particularly when it comes to our children. Every day we read about children who are bullied literally to death. We hear about children who take their own lives because no one cares enough to honor their sexual orientation or their gender identity. We know too well about children abused by the parents who are supposed to love them the most.

Children who are kidnapped and sold into slavery. Children who face prejudice and discrimination on account of their skin color or their ethnicity or the faith they profess. Children gunned down in elementary and college classrooms. When it comes to our children, especially, love requires more from fathers and mothers than blind obedience and putting our children through unimaginable trauma in order to prove our own worthiness…

Still, failure in this story cannot be solely attributed to Abraham. Most Hebrew scholars would say that Isaac was at least an adolescent when he went up Mount Moriah with his father. In fact, he may well have been a teenager or a young adult. It suffices to say Isaac was not a small child. Nevertheless, the story gives the impression that Isaac willingly went along with his father’s wishes. Given his advanced age and the fact that he was alone with his son, it’s hard to believe Abraham could have subdued and bound Isaac with rope. Unless Isaac cooperated or even helped in some way. Is it conceivable that Isaac participated in his own victimization?

It’s easy to judge from the outside and wonder why people, regardless of their age, don’t rise up against the ones who want to destroy them. Yet we’ve heard similar testimony firsthand from those who’ve lived through abuse. We know victims tend to keep silent. Experience tells us that people are often complicit in their own victimization…swallowing their own pain out of fear or denial or loyalty or insecurity. Seen from Isaac’s perspective, I wonder whether the lesson of Abraham and Isaac has to do with how important it is to resist. To speak out instead of losing our voices. To stand up in the face of evil and violence. To fight back against the powers that threaten us as a way of claiming justice and reclaiming our own humanity.

Finally, I would argue that the story of Abraham and Isaac is a story about the failure to forgive. What we have at the end of today’s tale is a family shattered and unable to put pieces back together. Abraham can’t forgive himself for the trauma he inflicted on his precious son. And it’s possible Abraham can’t forgive God for putting him through the turmoil and the chaos up on the mountain in the first place.

Meanwhile it takes Isaac an entire lifetime to forgive his father. Which at face value isn’t surprising. How do you rebuild a father son relationship in the wake of such deep betrayal? How could Isaac ever shake the image of the knife poised over his head?

And Sarah who wasn’t even there on top of Mount Moriah. She knew enough about what happened on the mountain that she didn’t want to know any more. But it didn’t take long for Sarah to realize that when Abraham and Isaac returned from their journey she had lost the husband she once knew. And her son had lost the innocence he once knew. Which left the family irreparably frayed and Sarah unable to figure out exactly why it happened or how to make it better. So she was forced to live with a nagging sense of bitterness and loneliness and regret.

Arguably there are a few things in life so horrific and tragic they cannot be forgiven. But there are also times when forgiveness means giving our pain and our anger and our resentment and our guilt and disappointment to God and asking God to grant forgiveness where we cannot. Thereby freeing people to let go and move on and live the kind the kind of unburdened lives God desires.

Abraham and Isaac is a story about failure to love. It’s a story about failure to resist. It’s a story about failure to forgive. And with those things said I think we could move on from this story.

But I don’t want to leave the story there. Instead, I want to leave this sermon series on a hopeful, positive, redemptive note. And the way I want to do that is by reminding us who we are.

Just like Abraham and Isaac and Sarah long ago, we are God’s people. We try hard as individuals and as a church community to listen to God and serve God and honor God, but we don’t always get it right. In truth, there are times when we fail miserably. And sometimes those failures come with a steep price.

Still, the amazing thing is that God loves us anyway. Even when we fall short, God gives us more chances and urges us to reach new heights. Even when we hurt those around us, God encourages us to reconcile with those we’ve wronged. Even when the past is fraught with pain and disenchantment, God reminds us that tomorrow is filled with new opportunities to turn the page and do better going forward.

In that spirit then…in a spirit of hope where we set aside that which divides us and weighs heavy upon us… and in a spirit of renewal where we strive to be the best people we can be and the best church we can be and the best Christians we can be. In that spirit I invite you to come forward and renew your baptismal vows this morning.

Once upon a time, maybe when you were a baby or maybe when you were older, I imagine someone, somewhere baptized you with water by the power of God’s Holy Spirit. That baptism was a sign for you of the eternal, unconditional love of God. And it was a sign for you of the love of the people who surrounded you in that sacred, sacramental moment.

I invite you, therefore, to come forward in a few moments this morning and dip your finger in the water. Put the water on your forehead. And remember your baptism.

May the water you use to anoint yourself remind you of what love requires. May the water remind you to resist what threatens to destroy you while you stand up for who you are. And may the water remind you of God’s gift of forgiveness which guides you along the path to new life even when you can’t always see the path with your own eyes. Amen.

Come in, would you? Thank you, dear. Pull the tent closed. I’m going to tell you a story. There’s a point, in a life, where one can look back and see where her moments made meaning. Where she had an effect on the world, and the world had an effect on her. I’m nearing the end, now, and at that point. My days are filled with memory…

Now, though, most of my being is uncomfortable. They don’t tell you that part, when you’re young. I’m telling you now, so you know.. There’s no easy way to sit or lie without the body reminding you of the years upon it. So I look into memory…

But even that comes and goes. The words… they escape me. I know the meanings, I search for different ways to say it… I wish I had studied more.

But the memories… each moment punctuated by the rituals that sustain me through. Even when the words are gone, the rituals will remain. They’ve helped me mark the moments in memory that I return to… and help me see the curve of a live lived. Lived well, I hope they say, one day. Certainly lived though.

Rituals define the events that made meaning in my life, all throughout. The marriages, full and empty, the wandering, the connections with Abraham. The rituals stabilized and gave me comfort, the day-to-day prayers and month-to-month services, like the beating of a drum throughout the fullness of my journey.

First it was the Marriage to Abram, we called him, then. We were young. I wasn’t altogether certain—his religion was different than mine, but he courted me well. (I used to be so beautiful, believe it or not… Now, though? ….) Anyway. His passion and energy for his God captivated me. So when he asked my family, I let them see the sparkle in my eye, too. And taking me away from home felt like a grand adventure. I suppose it was. I remember the wedding ritual. The exchange of the sheep and the promises of a future. He seemed so passionate. And the first night… he spoke to me of promises of a large, large, family… and promises of the Lord… blessings and fulfillments… So I relaxed my anxieties… and joined with him in his adventure.

But once it seemed that I was on board, his energy left me, this time, and we looked to Egypt! Still searching for the land Promised. Once we got there, I could feel others’ eyes on me, again. We settled… and Abram pitched his tent on the outskirts of the city, ready to go negotiate with the Pharaoh, and that’s when we were called in…

Unfamiliar rituals. Abram picked up on it before me. He whispered “Say you’re my sister!” and I nodded. They moved in ways that seemed route, practiced… but still bizarre for me. Brothers are safer than husbands. Husbands can be killed and wives taken, but brothers have negotiating power.

So we echoed again the marriage ritual, negotiating what cannot be had, and my true status as wife disregarded. The ritual marked the moment, again. We took the sheep, oxen, donkeys and servant-girls. I burned with anger. Sister!? So then, the plagues, Pharaoh got the hint, and we left. … with the goods.

In the wilderness, Abram was mine again, and we returned to the rituals of daily life in the desert. The days merged together. Remembering them now, it seems I hold the small things more than the extraordinary…. how when he’d return from pasture he’d brush past me, kissing the top of my head, and onto more business with the men. Our family rituals. We hoped for children, and despite everything we tried…. nothing. He spoke of blessings, again and again, and I grew tired. Looking back, I should have listened, instead of tuning out that well-played track. It’s easier to say that, looking back. Treasure those little moments, now, dear, would you?

He spoke so about our large, large, family (ha!) and I had to take things into my own hands. One of the women offered in my Egyptian dowry seemed the answer to the promise the Lord made our family— multitudes!— and so I had to make it happen. It took some convincing to make Abram go along with the plan… and it broke my heart to do so… but eventually he did. The ritual, again, this time, this time with the girl. It was becoming comforting, this near-miss-Marriage ritual… I knew the words, I leaned in, I let it happen. I could only pray. And from this: Ishmael.

But the girl wasn’t as skilled at reading the nuances… while she could surrogate, she couldn’t wife. She started with the passive aggression, to me, and turned on aaaalllllll the charm to Abram. I was afraid to go to him—it wasn’t obvious, but it was there. My heart clenched. My anger burned. I was provoked. He didn’t understand. Until one day, I snapped, and he called me into his tent, asking of me WHAT is going ON… and I cracked. Crying, I begged God’s compassion, and told him the story. Praise the Lord, Abram heard me, believed me, and affirmed my status as Wife again. For a time…

Because even that wasn’t enough adventure and role play for my husband. Brother, so he introduced himself, once again, to another powerful leader, with more marriage price, more empty ritual, more goods to offer. Again, in that day— still now—… sisters are safer than wives.

The Lord works in odd ways, though— I know that now— and this rouse produced a blessing and land for our Family, and more silver and animals and a covenant with the powerful leader, all because of the fear of the Lord. And we moved on, rag tag band of followers.

And the day to day rituals became my substance. Prayers in the morning. Prayers in the evening. My body moving and my mind elsewhere. It blurred together… until the flash of light! and the angel! And again God promised Good to us… and a ritual descended. No longer Abram and Sarai… but Abraham and Sarah. Father of multitudes and royal ancestress of nations. We laughed… here we are in our old age…. “You will bear a son, and call him Isaac!” More laughter. Impossible. My body was well past the time for such things! Shaking my head, back to the mundane… …until…. the impossible proved possible, and I felt stirrings within me. Wide eyed and bed-ridden, At that moment, ……….everything changed,……….. forever. Isaac was born, and became my daily delight! I never thought… I couldn’t believe… what miracle! The ritual of his naming was one of the Most Important in my life… my laughter.… all the meaning behind the movement… all the feeling behind the claiming of him as my son. The marking of new purpose.

But when I saw Ishmael playing with my beautiful boy, his hands around my boy’s neck, his smirk indicating violence, the threat alluded to for future consideration…. A mother knows. And This time, I had no hesitation of demanding of Abraham: Send your firstborn away! He is not the bearer of the Lord’s promise. Abraham pleaded, argued, promised it would be fine… but I couldn’t un-see what I saw. Isaac, my baby boy, in danger. He relented, and gathering supplies, sent them out to the wilderness to reckon with the Lord.

Abraham and I grew distant, but Isaac kept us together. The ritual of rearing a child, pouring all the effort and energy into a son… it kept us from talking to each other, and for us, it was a gift after all we’d been through. Isaac grew, and laughed. Played, and delighted in his life. And I delighted in him. My son!

Then, again… a moment that changed everything. Father and son went out into the wilderness, and when they came back…

Silence.

Stoicism.

Everything shifted.

They did not speak. Isaac was in shock. Heartbroken.

I…. reacted to my baby boy’s fear. I gathered him up and took him away.

How could anyone? How could Abraham? I once knew this man.

I poured myself into ritual once again. The daily prayers, the moments of connection, the familiarity of finding God and self in the memorization of the words and the people surrounding. In those moments, I could transcend what had happen, re-center myself, and be at peace. In those moments, I could try and piece together the meaning and re-imagine purpose and see my family together again. I could try.

Abraham moved away to Beersheba. I stayed in Hebron. We didn’t speak. I was tired, at that point, I confess… Just tired. Of all the drama, and moving and everything… I just couldn’t go.

And I need rest, now. Just rest. And ritual. The way in which it all makes sense and comes together… comfort in that ritual. I wish Abraham and Isaac would come back together… they have so much in common with their deep faith. It’s even in the way they laugh, the head tilted, just so… You know, I need to rest.

Would you bring me some water? That’s nice, dear. Thank you. And thank you for listening. Sometimes, when you get to a certain age, you think back, reflect… all the moments that define you and land you where you are… I didn’t think I’d land here. But it’s not bad. And could you do me a favor, dear? I’d like to stay here. When I die? Send word to Isaac. Right here. It won’t be long now. But tell him and Abraham both. The ritual I want is right here. And they have to do it. Together. That ritual… After all we’ve done together, that will be my last gift to them.